I know ‘t was wicked of me. There ‘s a thick
Dusk undeveloped spirit (I ‘ve observed)
Owes me a grudge — a negro’s, I should say,
Or else an Irish emigrant’s; yourself
Explained the case so well last Sunday, sir,
When we had summoned Franklin to clear up
A point about those shares i’ the telegraph:
Ay, and he swore . . . or might it be Tom Paine? . . .
Thumping the table close by where I crouched,
He ‘d do me soon a mischief: that ‘s come true!
Why, now your face clears! I was sure it would!
Then, this one time . . . don’t take your hand away,
Through yours I surely kiss your mother’s hand . . .
You’ll promise to forgive me? — or, at least,
Tell nobody of this? Consider, sir!
What harm can mercy do? Would but the shade
Of the venerable dead-one just vouchsafe
A rap or tip! What bit of paper ‘s here?
Suppose we take a pencil, let her write,
Make the least sign, she urges on her child
Forgiveness? There now! Eh? Oh! ‘T was your foot,
And not a natural creak, sir?
Answer, then!
Once, twice, thrice . . . see, I’m waiting to say “thrice!”
All to no use? No sort of hope for me?
It ‘s all to post to Greeley’s newspaper?
What? If I told you all about the tricks?
Upon my soul? — the whole truth, and nought else,
And how there ‘s been some falsehood — for your part,
Will you engage to pay my passage out,
And hold your tongue until I ‘m safe on board?
England’s the place, not Boston — no offence!
I see what makes you hesitate: don’t fear!
I mean to change my trade and cheat no more,
Yes, this time really it ‘s upon my soul!
Be my salvation! — under Heaven, of course.
I ‘ll tell some queer things. Sixty Vs must do.
A trifle, though, to start with! We ‘ll refer
The question to this table?
How you re changed!
Then split the difference; thirty more, we ‘ll say.
Ay, but you leave my presents! Else I ‘ll swear
‘T was all through those: you wanted yours again,
So, picked a quarrel with me, to get them back!
Tread on a worm, it turns, sir! If I turn,
Your fault! ‘T is you’ll have forced me! Who’s obliged
To give up life yet try on self-defence?
At all events, I ‘ll run the risk. Eh?
Done!
May I sit, sir? This dear old table, now!
Please, sir, a parting egg-nogg and cigar!
I ‘ve been so happy with you! Nice stuffed chairs,
And sympathetic sideboards; what an end
To all the instructive evenings! (It ‘s alight.)
Well, nothing lasts, as Bacon came and said.
Here goes, — but keep your temper, or I ‘ll scream!
Fol-lol-the-rido-lddle-iddle-ol!
You see, sir, it ‘s your own fault more than mine;
It ‘s all your fault, you curious gentlefolk!
You ‘re prigs, — excuse me, — like to look so spry,
So clever, while you cling by half a claw
To the perch whereon you puff yourselves at roost,
Such piece of self-conceit as serves for perch
Because you chose it, so it must be safe.
Oh, otherwise you ‘re sharp enough! You spy
Who slips, who slides, who holds by help of wing,
Wanting real foothold, — who can’t keep upright
On the other perch, your neighbour chose, not you:
There ‘s no outwitting you respecting him!
For instance, men love money — that, you know
And what men do to gain it: well, suppose
A poor lad, say a help’s son in your house,
Listening at keyholes, hears the company
Talk grand of dollars, V-notes, and so forth,
How hard they are to get, how good to hold,
How much they buy, — if, suddenly, in pops he —
“I’ve got a V-note!” — what do you say to him?
What’s your first word which follows your last kick?
“Where did you steal it, rascal?” That ‘s because
He finds you, fain would fool you, off your perch,
Not on the special piece of nonsense, sir,
Elected your parade-ground: let him try
Lies to the end of the list, — “He picked it up,
“His cousin died and left it him by will,
“The President flung it to him, riding by,
“An actress trucked it for a curl of his hair,
“He dreamed of luck and found his shoe enriched,
“He dug up clay, and out of clay made gold” —
How would you treat such possibilities?
Would not you, prompt, investigate the case
With cow-hide? “Lies, lies, lies,” you’d shout: and why?
Which of the stories might not prove mere truth?
This last, perhaps, that clay was turned to coin!
Let’s see, now, give him me to speak for him!
How many of your rare philosophers,
In plaguy books I’ve had to dip into,
Believed gold could be made thus, saw it made
And made it? Oh, with such philosophers
You’re on your best behaviour! While the lad —
With him, in a trice, you settle likelihoods,
Nor doubt a moment how he got his prize:
In his case, you hear, judge and execute,
All in a breath: so would most men of sense.
But let the same lad hear you talk as grand
At the same keyhole, you and company,
Of signs and wonders, the invisible world;
How wisdom scouts our vulgar unbelief
More than our vulgarest credulity;
How good men have desired to see a ghost,
What Johnson used to say, what Wesley did,
Mother Goose thought, and fiddle-diddle-dee: —
If he break in with, “Sir, I saw a ghost!”
Ah, the ways change! He finds you perched and prim;
It’s a conceit of yours that ghosts may be:
There’s no talk now of cow-hide. “Tell it out!
“Don’t fear us! Take your time and recollect!
“Sit down first: try a glass of wine, my boy!
“And, David, (is not that your Christian name?)
“Of all things, should this happen twice — it may —
“Be sure, while fresh in mind, you let us know!”
Does the boy blunder, blurt out this, blab that,
Break down in the other, as beginners will?
All ‘s candour, all ‘s considerateness — ”No haste!
“Pause and collect yourself! We understand!
“That’s the bad memory, or the natural shock,
Or the unexplained phenomena!”
Egad,
The boy takes heart of grace; finds, never fear,
The readiest way to ope your own heart wide,
Show — what I call your peacock-perch, pet post
To strut, and spread the tail, and squawk upon!
“Just as you thought, much as you might expect!
“There be more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,” . .
And so on. Shall not David take the hint,
Grow bolder, stroke you down at quickened rate?
If he ruffle a feather, it ‘s “Gently, patiently!
“Manifestations are so weak at first!
“Doubting, moreover, kills them, cuts all short,
“Cures with a vengeance!”
> There, sir, that’s your style!
You and your boy — such pains bestowed on him,
Or any headpiece of the average worth,
To teach, say, Greek, would perfect him apace,
Make him a Person (“Porson?” thank you, sir!)
Much more, proficient in the art of lies.
You never leave the lesson! Fire alight,
Catch you permitting it to die! You ‘ve friends;
There ‘s no withholding knowledge, — least from those
Apt to look elsewhere for their souls’ supply:
Why should not you parade your lawful prize?
Who finds a picture, digs a medal up,
Hits on a first edition, — he henceforth
Gives it his name, grows notable: how much more,
Who ferrets out a “medium”? “David ‘s yours,
“You highly-favoured man? Then, pity souls
“Less privileged! Allow us share your luck!”
So, David holds the circle, rules the roast,
Narrates the vision, peeps in the glass ball
Sets-to the spirit-writing, hears the raps,
As the case may be.
Now mark! To be precise —
Though I say, “lies” all these, at this first stage,
‘T is just for science’ sake: I call such grubs
By the name of what they’ll turn to, dragonflies.
Strictly, it ‘s what good people style untruth;
But yet, so far, not quite the full-grown thing:
It ‘s fancying, fable-making, nonsense-work —
What never meant to be so very bad —
The knack of story-telling, brightening up
Each dull old bit of fact that drops its shine.
One does see somewhat when one shuts one’s eyes,
If only spots and streaks; tables do tip
In the oddest way of themselves: and pens, good Lord,
Who knows if you drive them or they drive you?
‘T is but a foot in the water and out again;
Not that duck-under which decides your dive.
Note this, for it ‘s important: listen why.
I ‘ll prove, you push on David till he dives
And ends the shivering. Here ‘s your circle, now:
Two-thirds of them, with heads like you their host,
Turn up their eyes, and cry, as you expect,
“Lord, who’d have thought it!” But there’s always one
Looks wise, compassionately smiles, submits
“Of your veracity no kind of doubt,
“But — do you feel so certain of that boy’s?
“Really, I wonder! I confess myself
“More chary of my faith!” That ‘s galling, sir!
What, he the investigator, he the sage,
When all ‘s done? Then, you just have shut your eyes,
Opened your mouth, and gulped down David whole,
You! Terrible were such catastrophe!
So, evidence is redoubled, doubled again,
And doubled besides; once more, “He heard, we heard,
“You and they heard, your mother and your wife,
“Your children and the stranger in your gates:
“Did they or did they not?” So much for him,
The black sheep, guest without the wedding-garb,
The doubting Thomas! Now ‘s your time to crow:
“He’s kind to think you such a fool: Sludge cheats?
“Leave you alone to take precautions!”
Straight
The rest join chorus. Thomas stands abashed,
Sips silent some such beverage as this,
Considers if it be harder, shutting eyes
And gulping David in good fellowship,
Than going elsewhere, getting, in exchange,
With no egg-nogg to lubricate the food,
Some just as tough a morsel. Over the way,
Holds Captain Sparks his court: is it better there?
Have not you hunting-stories, scalping-scenes,
And Mexican War exploits to swallow plump
If you ‘d be free o’ the stove-side, rocking-chair,
And trio of affable daughters?
Doubt succumbs!
Victory! All your circle ‘s yours again!
Out of the clubbing of submissive wits,
David’s performance rounds, each chink gets patched,
Every protrusion of a point ‘s filed fine,
All ‘s fit to set a-rolling round the world,
And then return to David finally,
Lies seven-feet thick about his first half-inch.
Here ‘s a choice birth o’ the supernatural,
Poor David ‘s pledged to! You ‘ve employed no tool
That laws exclaim at, save the devil’s own,
Yet screwed him into henceforth gulling you
To the top o’ your bent, — all out of one half-lie!
You hold, if there ‘s one half or a hundredth part
Of a lie, that ‘s his fault, — his be the penalty!
I dare say! You ‘d prove firmer in his place?
You ‘d find the courage, — that first flurry over,
That mild bit of romancing-work at end, —
To interpose with “It gets serious, this;
“Must stop here. Sir, I saw no ghost at all.
“Inform your friends I made . . . well, fools of them,
“And found you ready-made. I ‘ve lived in clover
“These three weeks: take it out in kicks of me!”
I doubt it. Ask your conscience! Let me know,
Twelve months hence, with how few embellishments
You ‘ve told almighty Boston of this passage
Of arms between us, your first taste o’ the foil
From Sludge who could not fence, sir! Sludge, your boy!
I lied, sir, — there! I got up from my gorge
On offal in the gutter, and preferred
Your canvas-backs: I took their carver’s size,
Measured his modicum of intelligence,
Tickled him on the cockles of his heart
With a raven feather, and next week found myself
Sweet and clean, dining daintily, dizened smart,
Set on a stool buttressed by ladies’ knees,
Every soft smiler calling me her pet,
Encouraging my story to uncoil
And creep out from its hole, inch after inch,
“How last night, I no sooner snug in bed,
“Tucked up, just as they left me, — than came raps!
“While a light whisked” . . . “Shaped somewhat like a star?”
“Well, like some sort of stars, ma’am.” — ”So we thought!
“And any voice? Not yet? Try hard, next time,
“If you can’t hear a voice; we, think you may:
“At least, the Pennsylvanian ‘mediums’ did.”
Oh, next time comes the voice! “Just as we hoped!”
Are not the hopers proud now, pleased, profuse
O’ the natural acknowledgment?
Of course!
So, off we push, illy-oh-yo, trim the boat,
On we sweep with a cataract ahead,
We ‘re midway to the Horseshoe: stop, who can,
The dance of bubbles gay about our prow!
Experiences become worth waiting for,
Spirits now speak up, tell their inmost mind,
And compliment the “medium” properly,
Concern themselves about his Sunday coat,
See rings on his hand with pleasure. Ask yourself
How you ‘d receive a course of treats like these!
Why, take the quietest hack and stall him up,
Cram him with corn a month, then out with him
Among his mates on a bright April morn,
With the turf to tread; see if you find or no
A caper in him, if he bucks or bolts!
Much more a youth whose fancies sprout as rank
As toadstool-clump from melon-bed. ‘T is soon,
“Sirrah, you spirit, come, go, fetch and carry,
“Read, write, rap, rub-a-dub, and hang yourself!”
I’m spared all further trouble; all ‘s arranged;
Your circle does my business; I may rave
Like an epileptic dervish in the books,
Foam, fling myself flat, rend my clothes to shreds;
No matter: lovers, friends and countrymen
Will lay down spiritual laws, read wrong things right
By the rule o’ reverse. If Francis Verulam
Styles himself Bacon, spells the name beside
With a y and a k, says he drew breath in York,
Gave up the ghost in Wales when Cromwell reigned,
(As, sir, we somewhat fear he was apt to say,
Before I found the useful book that knows)
Why, what harm ‘s done? The circle smiles apace,
“It was not Bacon. after all. you see!
“We understand; the trick ‘s but natural:
“Such spirits’ individuality
“Is hard to put in evidence: they incline
“To gibe and jeer, these undeveloped sorts.
“You see, their world ‘s much like a jail broke loose,
“While this of ours remains shut, bolted, barred,
“With a single window to it. Sludge, our friend,
“Serves as this window, whether thin or thick,
“Or stained or stainless; he’s the medium-pane
“Through which, to see us and be seen, they peep:
“They crowd each other, hustle for a chance,
“Tread on their neighbour’s kibes, play tricks enough!
“Does Bacon, tired of waiting, swerve aside?
“Up in his place jumps Barnum — ’I ‘m your man,
“‘I ‘ll answer you for Bacon!’ Try once more!”
Or else it ‘s — ”What ‘s a ‘medium’? He ‘s a means,
“Good, bad, indifferent, still the only means
“Spirits can speak by; he may misconceive,
“Stutter and stammer, — he ‘s their Sludge and drudge,
“Take him or leave him; they must hold their peace,
“Or else, put up with having knowledge strained
“To half-expression through his ignorance.
“Suppose, the spirit Beethoven wants to shed
“New music he’s brimful of; why, he turns
“The handle of this organ, grinds with Sludge,
“And what he poured in at the mouth o’ the mill
“As a Thirty-third Sonata, (fancy now!)
“Comes from the hopper as bran-new Sludge, nought else,
“The Shakers’ Hymn in G, with a natural F,
“Or the ‘Stars and Stripes’ set to consecutive fourths.”
Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series Page 71